by Doug Beason
Captain Whitney cocked his head. “That’s good, Cadet Simone. Very good. How old were you?”
“I was six years old, sir.”
Someone sniggered at the back of the room.
Whitney looked around for the perpetuator and smiled. “I see. A six year old killing a professionally-trained German Storm Trooper.” He picked up a sheaf of papers. “So when did Mister Simone bring you to America?”
Rod wiped away a tear with his sleeve. “Sir, I kept my family name. My adoptive father was a downed pilot, Hank McCluney.”
Captain Whitney straightened. Turning his head slightly, he narrowed his eyes at Rod and didn’t speak; a moment passed and the classroom was eerily quiet. Rod felt that all eyes were on him.
A faraway look came over Captain Whitney’s eyes. “McCluney …”
“Yes, sir. Hank McCluney. He’s Scottish, from the Lowlands.”
Someone coughed, and Whitney abruptly started handing out the papers. “I say, who’s on for tomorrow?”
Jeff Goldstein stood. “Sir, I’m up next. I’ll tell the class how my shooting hoops in the Bronx led to winning the New York State High School Basketball championship.”
“Not good enough, Mr. Goldstein. You’ll need to be more creative if you’re going to top Simone’s little fantasy. Now, put away your books in preparation for a pop quiz.”
O O O
Rod woke with a start. He lifted his head from the floor and felt stiff all over. What a way to spend a Friday night.
Or wake up Saturday morning.
It took him a moment to remember, but it came back quickly: Their first Saturday Morning Inspection, or SAMI, was going to occur this morning and there was no way he was going to risk remaking his bed, especially after all the time he had spent on it the night before. It had taken a while to fall asleep last night, even after being dog-tired from boxing in gym class and playing flickerball in intramurals. But what kept him awake was that before Captain Whitney’s class, he hadn’t thought of killing that German for a long, long time.…
He listened for a moment, but couldn’t tell what had woken him. It must have been his internal clock.
Fred snored softly, still asleep on the floor next to him. The beds were pushed up against the dorm room wall, immaculately made, tighter than a board of wood, and with hospital corners so sharp they’d slice off a finger.
Rod held up his wristwatch and read the green glow from the radium dial. Five fifteen. They had another forty-five minutes to reveille, and all hell would break loose.
Rod leaned over and shook Fred. “Hey. Wake up. We’ve got latrine duty.”
“Oh, no,” Fred moaned. He twisted around and sat up on the floor. “I had the strangest dream. Captain Justice tied me to a board and dragged me behind his car.”
Rod pushed up and stretched. “Don’t tell anyone about that dream. Justice may do it if he finds out.”
“Uh-oh.”
They pulled on pants, shirts, and took their shoes to the edge of the room, not wanting to risk scuffing up the floor. They had spent too much time the night before cleaning every part of their room to mess things up now.
They slipped out of their room. Pressed against the wall, they walked at attention to the latrine. Rod carefully opened the door so as not to wake Lieutenant Ranch or any other ATO that might be around, and flicked on the light.
Fred headed for the urinal. “I’ve got to go before we clean up.”
Rod reached out and grabbed arm. “Wait. We sanitized the urinals and toilets last night. We’ve got to clean the sinks and get back to our room.”
“But I’ve got to go!”
“What are you trying to do, get everyone in trouble by soiling the toilets? No one uses the bathroom until after the SAMI, remember? The squadron agreed last night.”
A pained expression swept over Fred’s face. “Rod, I’m serious. If I don’t go, I’m going to pop.”
“Think of the squadron, Fred.”
“Think of me! How am I going to hold it? Reveille isn’t for another forty minutes, then we’ve got the morning run and breakfast before the SAMI. I can’t make it!”
“The squadron, Fred! Think of the rest of us.”
“Uh-oh—”
Rod picked up a sponge and cleaner from a small closet set underneath the sink. “Come on, we’ve got to finish the sinks.”
“Uh-oh—” Fred grabbed at his crotch. “I’m really not going to make it.”
Rod glanced at the urinals, then the row of toilets. The doors were partially opened, yet perfectly aligned. The whole squadron must have spent three hours in here last night, scraping out grit, scouring off mold, and turning the latrine from a place that barely passed as a bathroom into a sterile showcase where their waiter, Mr. Raf Garcia, could have served the evening meal.
As much as Rod sympathized for his roommate, the squadron had just spent too much time cleaning up the latrine. They had all sworn not to drink anything after the evening meal, and not to use the latrine until after this morning’s SAMI.
“Uh-oh—”
Rod started to dump the cleaning powder into the sink when he waved a hand at Fred. “All right. If you have to go, then go in the sink. But you wash it out, and you clean it up when you’re done.”
Fred quickly unzipped and stepped up to the basin. Seconds later he wore a satisfied smile.
O O O
It didn’t take Captain Justice more than three minutes to decide that Rod and Fred’s room was worthless.
For the first two minutes and forty five seconds, Justice rummaged through their clothing drawer, searching for who-knows-what type of contraband. He ran a white-gloved finger along every surface in the room inspecting for dust; he scrutinized their combat boots; he checked to see if their clothes were properly lined up; he bounced quarters off both beds, only to have them pop up impressively high into the air; he checked under their beds for dust; he checked their textbooks to see if they were arranged in descending order; he checked for dust behind the textbooks; he opened their medicine cabinets and ran a finger over the glass, checking for mold or spilled toothpaste; he checked to see if their toothpaste dispensers were properly rolled.
As Captain Justice turned to leave, he spotted something on Fred’s bed. “Look at this.” He leaned over. With white-gloved hands he picked up a hair. “This is disgusting. This is the grossest thing I’ve seen in my entire life. You men live in a pigsty!”
Rod bit his tongue. The hair was three times as long as the longest hair any doolie sported. If it was anyone’s, it must have been Captain Justice’s.
Justice reached down and grabbed the railing of Fred’s bed. He flipped it over, soiling the covering and sheets. He walked across the room and flipped over Rod’s, then opened the clothes drawer and emptied their neatly folded clothes on the floor.
The last five seconds of Captain Justice’s SAMI resulted in their entire closet being dumped in the center of the room.
Fifteen seconds from perfection to chaos.
Justice looked over the mess. “Look at this mess! You men make me sick. Drop and give me fifty. Then clean up this pigsty and get it right next time.”
As he exited the room, Rod and Fred said, “Thank you, sir. Good morning, sir!”
O O O
“You’d think we were still in BCT,” Sly whispered.
Rod double-timed in place as he joined his classmates at the assembly area. He whipped out his Contrails from his back pocket and pretended to study. “We’re not?”
“Either that, or I’ve gotten used to this place. Yes, sir, just like home. A beautiful Colorado Sunday morning, and we’re double-timing in place before going to church.” Sly shut up as he spotted an ATO approaching.
Lieutenant Ranch placed his hands on his hips and raised his voice. “All right, listen up, doolies.” He looked over the group. “Bring your knees up higher, Delante, you’re double-timing, not going for a Sunday stroll.” He turned back to the group. “General Stillman has recei
ved complaints about the dirty jodies you men have been singing.”
Rod grimaced. Jodies were the songs the cadets sang when they marched or ran. And if there were any complaints levied … well, it was the ATOs who had taught them the jodies in the first place.
“Now cut out the filthy lyrics, especially on Sunday, and particularly when you’re running to church service. Understand?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Good.” He positioned himself at the front of the squadron. “Time for church, so clean up those dirty thoughts you smacks wallow in; you need more saltpeter in your food.” He paused. “At the double time, forward, harch.” The squadron surged off toward the cadet chapel.
They ran in silence. It felt weird, running and not chanting. But orders were orders, and especially when they had come from General Stillman. No telling who had been offended by their jodies, but Rod guessed that was one of the unforeseen consequences of allowing the tourists to view the cadet area.
After a few more moments of running in silence, Rod heard Sly’s voice ring out beside him. “A-ma-zing Grace, how sweet the sound—”
It seemed weird, yet it also seemed right. And it was a heck of a lot better than staying quiet. Within seconds, they were all singing the old hymn, preparing for chapel.
O O O
September 25, 1955
Fall was a blur of activity. They were ever on the go, ever busy with classes, intramurals, ethics lectures, military training, navigation training, and the ever-present marching wherever they went. But today, next to the vote establishing the Honor Code, picking the falcon as their mascot seemed to be one of the most monumental things their class could have done: the raptor was fast, intelligent, persistent, high-flying, and faithful—always returning. They were attributes that the cadets saw in themselves.
It was this and the letters from Sandy and Rod’s parents that kept him going. He saved them all, and found that on Sunday afternoons, while he was studying alone in the library, he’d pull out the last week’s letters and re-read them.
But the letters from Sandy slowed, last writing that Berkeley overwhelmed her.
Rod read about her loading up the car for the trip up US 101, and her excitement at meeting her roommate. He read of her first classes and the electric sensation of being in the Bay Area, near the Golden Gate Bridge, San Francisco, and all the strange culture that was just a short trip across the Bay. Before Rod knew it, the letters dribbled from arriving every other day to every other week.…
***
Chapter Thirteen
“A Blossom Fell”
November 18, 1955
United States Air Force Academy
Lowry Field, CO
The weariest nights, the longest days, sooner or later must perforce to come to an end.
—Baroness Orczy, The Scarlet Pimpernel, Ch. 22
The season’s first snow swept in late that year, or at least it was late according to waiter extraordinaire, Mr. Raf Garcia.
Rod put down his head and trudged against the driving blizzard. It was a week before Thanksgiving and the wind whipped around his face, stinging his mouth and eyes. He was wet and freezing. He’d left Mitchell Hall after dinner and fought against the cold blast, but he was pushed back with every step he took. It had taken one of the football players slipping and nearly breaking an ankle before the AOCs ordered the doolies not to run in the inclement weather.
In a way, there was a certain satisfaction, a touch of serenity with the snow. It was as if a giant, howling white blanket had enveloped the Academy, and for the shortest period, it enveloped the doolies and insulated them from the hellish environment of the Fourth class system.
Rod looked up, startled as someone passed the other way. He couldn’t tell if it had been one of his classmates or an officer. If the weather was so bad that an ATO wouldn’t stop to correct him for not saluting, then this truly was salvation.
Rod turned into the mailroom and stepped out of the blizzard. He removed his gloves, pushed his way past his classmates, and found his mailbox. Guarded whispers drifted from a group of doolies, their parkas masking who was speaking. The strong smell of disinfectant wafted from a bucket in the corner left by a janitor.
The mailroom seemed to be constantly in motion, a fluid gathering of classmates who lived from day-to-day to check the mail, sometimes every few hours, yearning for news from home. With shaking hands, Rod opened the lock and reached inside.
A letter from Sandy. He felt a deep aching that made him weak at the knees.
It had been two weeks since her last letter. She had forlornly reminisced about how she missed Southern California, yet wrote how much fun she was having in college.…
Stuffing her letter deep in his pocket, he stepped from the mailroom. He debated heading for the library, but remembered that Fred should be scrimmaging indoors with the football team, so he’d have the dorm room to himself.
It wasn’t that he minded Fred’s company; they had passed that hurdle long ago. Rather, reading a letter from Sandy was something he preferred to do alone.
He arrived back in his room and carefully opened the letter.
Sometimes it was almost as if she were there, next to him. The fantasy of them being alone was made more real, more intimate, when no one else was in the room.
He drew in a breath and inspected the letter; it smelled of perfume, and the memory of her rolled over him.
Her handwriting was incredibly beautiful. It looked as though she had studied calligraphy and had spent hours patiently crafting each letter. Sometimes, as he searched the text for subtle shades of meaning, he wondered if she studied his letters as intently as he.
He wondered if she knew that her letters were far more than just simple sheets of paper with her thoughts written on them.
It was especially true on Sunday afternoons, when he would soon start another week of eating crap and putting up with the yelling and the hazing. It was then that her letters served a far deeper purpose than just passing along bits of information. As he re-read them they were lifelines, an anchor to an idealized relationship, which were not only more important than she’d ever know, but were absolutely necessary for his survival.…
My dearest Rod, I don’t know how to tell you this—
His world collapsed as he focused on every word. The blood pounded in his ears, making the noise of his classmates walking in the hallway seem as if they echoed in a cavernous chamber.
The moment was seared in his mind: the open door to his room; the snow beating against the window; the sound of someone being chewed out down the hall; the smell of floor wax intermingled with the scent of freshly pressed shirts hanging in the closest—the time, the place, and the memory of these senses were burned into him as he read with shaking hands …
… Not that there is someone else, it’s just that I’ve changed; we’ve both changed, and it’s really for the best.…
His breathing quickened as he re-read the letter, more rapidly this time, looking for a note at the bottom, a loophole, something he may have missed: only fooling, it’s just a joke!
He trolled for a hint of something he’d done, something he hadn’t done, so that he could turn back the clock, try again, and make it right.
It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair.
Everything he’d put up with throughout BCT, changing roommates and having to pull the weight of two people in addition to himself—why did this have to happen? And why now? It was just before Thanksgiving, and for what did he have to be thankful?
How could he make it through another week without something to look forward to? Without her letters, her encouragement, and most of all to not hold the same paper that she had held, not smell the perfume that only days before had been sprinkled by her hand, and worst of all, not to dream that someday she’d be in his arms again.
She said she’d wait forever.
Why did it have to happen now? It just wasn’t fair!
“Simone! Are you deaf?”
Clutching the letter to his side, Rod sprung to his feet. His lip quivered as he stared straight ahead.
Lieutenant Ranch walked into his view. “Simone, were you ignoring me?”
“No, sir!” His voice cracked.
Lieutenant Ranch opened his mouth, then glanced down to see Rod’s letter. “Simone, are you all right?”
The room wavered as he stood. What’s wrong with me?
“Is anything wrong, Simone?”
Rod remained mute.
Lieutenant Ranch folded his arms and studied Rod for a moment.
Rod felt warm, dizzy, as if the heat in the room had kicked into overdrive.
Lieutenant Ranch leaned back against Fred’s desk. “Stand at ease, Simone.”
“Yes, sir.” Rod slipped into parade rest.
“How are things going with you and Mr. Delante?”
“Sir, things are going well.”
“Good. I’ve noticed he’s starting to spend less time doing push-ups in the hallway. If Delante had a good voice, it wouldn’t be so bad when he’s being disciplined, but hearing him sing out of tune night after night is wearing.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How are academics?”
“Sir, academics are going well.” Rod felt more confident as his voice stopped trembling.
“Intramurals? I watched your last wrestling match and you seemed pretty tired.”
“Sir, intramurders are going well.”
“How about military studies.”
“Sir, military studies are going well.”
“What about things at home?”
Rod hesitated, then spoke carefully. “Sir, things are going … going well.”
“I see.” Lieutenant Ranch paused for a moment. “So everything in Cadet Fourth class Simone’s life is going well.” He shook his head. “Everything is peachy keen, and I walk into your room and I get ignored. Simone, either you are getting cute with your honor code and are starting to quibble, or my assessment about you is all wrong, and you are the dumbest smack at the Academy. So what is it?”
Rod drew in a breath, “Sir, may I make a statement?”
“Go on.”
